


Folie  à Deux

by orphan_account



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Adult Morty Smith, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Denial, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Museums, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Secret Identity, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-04 18:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16351658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: FBI agent Rick Sanchez’s life is on an upswing lately. For starters, he’s leading the case of his career–a complex operation involving a notorious art thief. Plus, he’s finally settled into a dimension without a Smith family (after his Morty ran away, he never wanted to see another stuttering, brown eyed teenager ever again or anyone close to him).So, yeah, things are good for once.That is, until one ill-fated afternoon when he just so happens to stumble into a Morty.And this Morty, well, she’s something else.





	1. Chapter 1

  


  
  


_I have little left in myself–I must have you. The world may laugh–may call me absurd, selfish–but it does not signify._  
_My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame._

\- Charlotte Brontë, _Jane Eyre_

  
  


  


Rick stands on the rooftop of a nondescript high-rise watching the traffic below as he waits for the suspect to arrive. Although it’s only mid-September, it’s frigid because of the altitude, and the wind rippling through his clothes. He tries to focus on something else to help forget the cold. There’s always something to look at in Manhattan, but the obscurity of night limits distractions, so he’s relegated to watching the rapid blur of cars sailing down Park Avenue.

Watching traffic isn’t enough stop him from feeling annoyed, however, at the fact that the suspect, Blue, isn’t here yet. That, and she’s picked just about the worst time and place to hand over a valuable painting. What, with the less than favorable weather; how contrived it feels to pick the top of a high-rise at midnight to finally meet. He thinks she may just be watching too many action films, and the thought more or less deflates his high expectations of her.

Her case file had said she possessed Machiavellian intelligence, was an expert at sleight of hand, and left the scene of a crime without a trace, constantly eluding everyone–museum guards, police, INTERPOL, Homeland Security, the FBI–you name it. It also noted she was an abstract thinker, capable of masterminding crimes with the aid of advanced technology, many of which were of her own creation. 

And yet, she’s got Rick standing around like an idiot hoping the wind won’t blow back the painting she’s supposedly delivering to him. They’d potentially lose thirty million dollars worth of art to traffic just because she wants to feel like a fictional villain. But in a way, he can’t blame her–he’d have a fucking ego the size of Mars if he’d managed to steal six hundred million dollars worth of art in three years. Well–actually, he himself had stolen about four hundred million, and he could’ve gotten away with more, but then he got recruited into the FBI. They didn’t give him much of a choice: it was either join or get sent to prison. 

Sure, he could’ve whipped out his portal gun, aimed it at the nearest wall, and said “ _Adios!_ ” And for the record, he almost did. But, truthfully, at that time in his life he’d had enough of doing what any other Rick would do. He was sick of running, burnt out from skipping to and from dimensions, done with walking away as if he had never been there. 

He found that sticking to one dimension was actually more challenging than adventuring around the galaxy–because it meant commitment, something that went against his nature. As hard as it was, he felt he need to be grounded to something for the sake of his sanity. 

It wasn’t just that he was sick of being nomadic, no, when his Morty stole his portal gun years ago and disappeared, he’d felt lost. And since Rick had given up searching for him ages ago, that was all the more reason to start over somewhere and establish himself. 

He decided on a dimension that, as far as he knew, didn’t have a Smith family (god forbid he ran into another Rick, or worse, a Morty). Once he settled in, he started stealing art to pass the time. The way he ended up doing it was kind of a long story–basically, his Morty had always liked art, so he wound up getting into it by association. He never anticipated his illegal hobby would mean eventually working for the FBI, but in hindsight the decision made sense. He found life was easier if he could give up the reigns for once and still put his mind to something.

The more complicated and involved the case was, the more he applied himself; it’s what led him to become the lead investigator at the FBI’s art crime unit. 

So, logically, when he was finally put on the Blue Thief case, he gladly threw himself into it. 

His plan had been to re-establish his previous art thief identity, stage some fake heists (with the oversight of the Bureau), and ideally attract the attention of the thief. No one believed it would work–they all laughed at him when he said he was confident he could get her to pursue him, instead of the other way around. 

He knows he’s outsmarted everyone who came before him, then, when he finally hears the distant sound of footsteps nearing his vicinity–the physical evidence that, yes, she’d come to him after all. 

“Rembrandt.” A confident, smooth voice says beside him.

(Incidentally, he recognizes immediately that she’s using a voice filter–it’s subtle, and he can only tell because he uses a similar one himself. He gets a hunch that she’s using a level of technology like his own, but that’s neither here nor there.)

When he hears the nickname, he turns to her. 

‘Rembrandt’ was what the media had dubbed him back in his theft days, because, shocker–he has a thing for Rembrandts (he had a bet with himself back then that he could steal all seventy–eight of the artist’s self portraits, which was easier said than done). When he eventually got to the FBI, the end to his criminal days never made it to the news since he was never arrested. As far as anyone knows, Rembrandt is still out there. 

And he’s just recently broken his hiatus. 

“You’re late.” He replies curtly.

“I was busy.” 

“With _what?_ ” 

He waits for an answer, not realizing she’s deliberately ignoring him until he hears rustling, and then a zipping sound–he assumes she’s opening her duffle bag. There aren’t any lights up on the rooftop, so he can’t actually see her. The residual glow of traffic only helps him see a faint outline of her in the darkness. 

“Great meeting spot by the way, I almost mistook you for fucking Batman.” He says, hoping this time he could provoke her into engaging him. 

He listens to her pause for a moment, then she asks: 

“What, you don’t like it?”

“It’s not exactly _ideal_.”

“The why’d you agree to it?”

“You didn’t give me a choice, remember?”

“Oh–that’s right. I didn’t.” 

The condescension in her voice manages to irk him–he can tell she’s playing him now. She didn’t just choose the rooftop and then show up late because of a reckless ego–she did it simply because she could. It’s aggravating, even if he admits to himself that, objectively, it’s a decent power move. But, he shrugs it off for now; he’ll arrest her someday anyway.

“Well, here’s the Picasso.” She says, and Rick notices her hold something rectangular out in front of him, and he takes it. 

He fishes out a flashlight, turns it on and points it at the artwork. At first glance, it indeed appears to be the painting he’d asked for–Picasso’s _Le Gourmet_ , a monochromatic work from the artist’s Blue Period (and like Rick being dubbed Rembrandt, Blue got her name from her tendency to steal works from said period in Picasso’s history). 

Rick turns the painting over, noting the museum label on the back of the painting matches the one in the photos from the National Gallery of Art’s private archives–the museum the painting was stolen from (in order to lure Blue to meet with him, Rick managed to arrange a deal with the museum to allow the theft, which the FBI had miraculously approved). 

“Is it good enough for you?” Blue questions, causing Rick to look back at her. 

And now, with the light emanating from the flashlight he can actually see her. He notices the only part of her face that isn’t concealed is her eyes–a bright blue which he assumes are colored contacts. Long blonde hair spills out from under her balaclava (the blonde could be a wig; he’s not sure about that one). The balaclava, strangely, is made totally out of black lace, which isn’t noted in her file, indicating that she began wearing it pretty recently. Although he’s tempted to ask about it, inquiring about her fashion choices would technically be a waste of time, so he refrains.

“Yep. It’s good.” He announces, turning off his flashlight. 

“You’re lucky I like you, by the way, I could’ve gotten good money for that.”

And by ‘money’ she’s referring to her M.O., wherein she steals a work of art, asks for a ransom amount, and then returns the work as a kind of political statement (the FBI has theorized that she gives the money to charity, and one of Rick’s tasks is to find out whether or not that’s the case). She’s never actually made it clear exactly what about the art world she’s protesting, and Rick’s hoping he can find that out also while undercover. Any information about her, including her motivations, may prove useful in her eventual arrest, and anyone else who may or may not be involved with her. 

But this time, the Picasso she stole for Rick wasn’t taken for political reasons. It’s more of a symbol she’s using to prove herself to him; to demonstrate she wants to work with him now that he’s back. Over the years, Blue has gone out of her way to make her admiration for Rick publicly obvious. Once, she’d stolen Rembrandt’s _The Night Watch_ from a museum in Amsterdam, and spray painted the message ‘THIS ONE’S FOR REMBRANDT’ in the wall-space next to the empty frame. This is how Rick drew her in–he understood he could exploit what no other national or international government organization could–the reverence of a fellow thief. 

Rick, now being satisfied with the authenticity of the Picasso and the thief who stole it, carefully stows the painting away in his duffle bag. 

“I guess I’m flattered.” Rick says nonchalantly. “So, what’s next Blue?”

“LACMA. Next week. The museum is mounting a Hopper exhibition; the work is on loan from MOMA. We’ll hit up the transport vehicle in LA. I’ll send you more details later.” 

They exchange goodbyes, and then she turns to walk away.

He calls his supervisor on the way back to the Bureau.

“You fucking hear that shit, Merrick? I found her.” Rick declares triumphantly into his burner. 

He hears a sigh on the other end.

“Yes Rick, we all heard you.”

“Fuck yeah you did, and you can t–tell the assholes at Quantico they can lick my balls.” 

“Yeah, no, I don’t think you need me to remind anyone at headquarters how much of a prick you are. Anyway, you know the deal. Write the memo tonight, and we’ll inform LACMA about the plan. I’ll see you tomorrow at the debriefing.” 

“Yeah yeah, whatever.” 

Rick hangs up the phone then, satisfied with himself.

  
  


+++++

  
  


The next day, he shows up at the at the debriefing, and as usual, there’s a few stragglers who are still skeptical about his plan, as well as others asking idiotic questions that have already been answered. 

The only thing he really gets out of it is that his peers are still holding onto the theory that she didn’t commit all the thefts alone. That’s part of the reason he didn’t simply try to arrest her last night–the Bureau wants to use her to get to any potential accomplices (the other reason was that the FBI technically has no evidence that directly links her to any of the crimes, even the Picasso from last night wasn’t enough to put her away since Rick wasn’t instructed to try to incriminate her, and even if he had been, there was no guarantee that it would work–she tended not to fall for most of the techniques used to catch criminals). 

Rick felt they were underestimating her when it came to her acting alone. He thought that perhaps she did have some help, but not in the way they assumed.

From the looks of it, Rick concluded the most likely situation was that she recruited people who could help her with things that weren’t directly related to the theft, like handling ransom money and every once in a blue moon, selling stolen works. But the actual thefts were all her; it was something he could tell from closely studying the cases. The M.O. was just too perfect and meticulously carried out for it to be a group effort–Rick understood that the more people were involved, the more variation there would be, and there just wasn’t evidence of that in any of the cases. 

But, nonetheless, he would do as he was told, and prove everyone wrong–once again.

  
  


+++++

  
  


After the briefing, he leaves the Bureau to go decompress. He tends to gravitate to museums during his off time–typically, he’ll follow a docent tour and end up in some kind of debate. ‘Debate’ is putting it kindly, however, since it’s more like arguing and proving his point until he drives away tourists and elderly people, until some of the curators quit their jobs because of him. In a fucked up way, it’s almost like he’s having a competition with himself, challenging himself to piss more people off with every visit (the work he’s done for recovering stolen art from museums allows him to get away with it, so he never gets kicked out). 

So today, he shows up to the Guggenheim, specifically, to some exhibition about social media that he just knows he’ll have a field day with. 

He’s sitting at a bench in the center the gallery waiting for the tour to begin, when a museum staff member starts speaking behind him. He’s not paying attention much, but essentially the guy’s there to introduce a new part time curator slash occasional docent who curated the exhibition and would be guiding the tour. He doesn’t bother to turn around to look–all the docents are the same to him.

When he leaves, Rick goes to go join the group of patrons standing in front of the new curator.

And that’s when he sees her. 

It’s like his mind malfunctions for half a second, and some kind of base instinct takes over, because he tries reaching for his portal gun, forgetting that he doesn’t use it anymore. 

So, short from leaving the tour abruptly, he can’t do much except stand there and pretend like he isn’t internally combusting over the fact that the curator is a goddamn _Morty_. Well, actually–a female Morty (and he hasn’t even seen that kind since his days at the citadel, which was years before). 

He does the math in his head–at this point, Mortys are full fledged adults in their twenties–and he’s technically never come across one at this age.

If he had ever wondered what a grown up female Morty looked like, the answer stood right in front him. Barring the long brown hair, the straight bangs covering her forehead, and the red headband he recalls them having worn back then, this one no longer appears to be the pale, awkward looking teen from his memory. 

She stands in front of him with self-assured nonchalance; sporting a black Joy Division t-shirt and Doc Martens. To Rick, she looks like every other girl in her twenties living in New York.

The only thing that stands out to him is a curiously ‘V’ shaped scar on the left side of her jaw, and her name tag, which has the name ‘Melanie’ on it. 

In Rick’s mind, there’s no way her name is Melanie. He’s certain. Her real name must be some variation of Morty, and maybe she simply decided to change it later on. Though, he didn’t really have much of a point of reference considering he’d long forgotten what the female Mortys on the citadel were called. 

(But, until he finds out her real name, he’ll just refer to her in his head as female Morty, he’s decided.)

Rick is so distracted thinking about her, that by the time he starts paying attention again the tour is halfway over. Right now, they happen to be standing in front of the most ridiculous piece of art in the entire exhibition–a slab of concrete featuring a mural of a crying boy with an instagram notification bubble above his head. 

What’s absurd about it is that the mural appears to be directly cut out of the wall it was originally spray painted on. He’s never seen any museum do that, especially when a photograph of the work would serve just as well. And besides, he doesn’t think one could still call it street art if it wasn’t actually in the street.

But even worse than that, because of the style the artist chose to spray paint in, people would wrongly assume it’s a–

“Banksy! Oh my god–it’s so badass that the museum got him to lend his work. He’s like, totally my favorite artist. His stuff really speaks to me on like, an intellectual level.” A girl wearing an NYU baseball cap exclaims.

Rick turns to her, scowling. “Oh _wow_. Favorite, huh? You’d think you’d–you’d be able to tell that this isn’t actually his work then.”

“Wait... What?” The girl asks after a moment of awkward silence.

“He’s um, _right_ , but Banksy is actually a fan of the artist–iHeart, and their w–w–work is similar in style, so it’s normal to confuse the two.” Female Morty chimes in, evidently trying to make the girl feel better.

“Unless he’s, like, your favorite artist, and then it’s actually k–kind of, like, _embarrassing_.” Rick says, mocking the girl with the NYU hat, dragging out his words for effect.

The girl gives him an appalled look, as if she’s not sure how to respond. 

It goes on like that for a time, with Rick continuing to snidely interject while female Morty tries to pointlessly intervene. That is, until her patience wears thin, and things more or less devolve into an all out argument between her and Rick. 

By the end of it all, he’s driven away over half of the tour group. 

Later, when Rick thinks about it, he’s harsh with this Morty because the earth dimension he’s on wasn’t supposed to have anyone from the Smith family, specially not a Morty. And, okay, it’s not that he doesn’t like Mortys–he just doesn’t like to be reminded of his own. He can’t bear to think of what could happen if he gets involved with another one and ruins a relationship like that again. 

And it makes him angry, angry that she exists, and that now he has to deal with it. 

Nevertheless, Rick goes to her next docent tour, mostly out of spite. By the end, their argument escalates to the point where another docent has to step into separate them. 

The third time he shows up, they argue until somehow they end up on the other side of the room, with female Morty backing him into the wall, face inches from his. The two are so heated they have to pause to collect themselves. They’re breathing hard, staring daggers in to each other and getting ready to start again, when they hear someone whisper nearby to their friend:

“Does it look like they’re about to fuck, or kill each other? I can’t tell.”

The other says, “Maybe both.”

And then there’s some hushed giggling, and the whole exchange snaps Rick back to reality. He awkwardly clears his throat, sidesteps away from female Morty and walks off. For her part, she also leaves him in a rush–probably doesn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression on her first week.

Afterwards, Rick’s sitting alone in the cafe nursing a latte, when female Morty walks over, pulls out a chair and sits in front of him.

“Hey, what’s your name asshole?” She asks, her eyes intense. 

“Rick.” He responds, trying not to reveal his astonishment at the fact that she doesn’t recognize him–doesn’t recognize a _Rick_.

“Okay Rick. So, what’s your problem with me?”

Rick shrugs. “I don’t like docents.” 

“No. I know that’s not it. I was warned about y–y–you when I came here. They said you’re an asshole, but not like this. You have something against me, don’t y–you?”

Out of the corner of his eye he notices the plastic of her name tag glinting under the fluorescent museum lighting, making him wonder again about her name. 

“Is your name really Melanie?” He asks, decidedly ignoring her question. 

She stares at him for a moment, clearly being taken off guard, and she leans in imperceptibly closer.

“What makes you think it’s not?” 

“You don’t look like a Melanie.” 

“Oh? And what do I–I look like to you then?”

Rick shrugs again. “I dunno. Just not a _Melanie_.”

Her eyes narrow a fraction. “Okay, I don’t know what you’re playing at right now, but the point is, you need to stop being so–so shitty to me for no fucking reason. Go bother someone else Rick. Geez.” 

And before Rick can answer, she gets up from her chair and storms off.

  
  


+++++

  
  


Blue drags her arm in a slow, circular manner as she finishes spray painting the wall in front of them. She sets the can down, the scent of chemicals now permeating the air as her and Rick step back to look at the stenciled message she’s just painted on the wall. 

‘10 MILLION FOR THE HOPPERS’ it read, and then underneath, in smaller caps: ‘TRUST ME. I CAN MAKE BETTER USE OF YOUR DONOR MONEY THAN YOUR BOARD.’ 

“Uh, looks very _protest_ worthy, I guess. You know, down with the establishment, and all that.” Rick mutters.

Blue rolls her eyes.

“You’ll come around soon enough.”

On their way to the LACMA, he’d listened to her talk about all of the supposed corruption going on at the museum. It was something to do with misusing public funds, as well as their shady involvement with politicians, and Rick thinks there was maybe something else in there too probably. He had stopped paying attention about halfway in, since he was recording her anyway. He’d been listening closely at first, because he thought he’d glean something worthwhile, but it eventually became apparent that Blue was only your garden variety social justice warrior that also happened to have exceptional intelligence and cunning.

And it’s for the latter that he enjoyed her company. 

He’d rather listen to her talk about how she intercepted the GPS tracking embedded in the transport vehicle. Thus, being able to conceal the detour that allowed them to take the truck over and impersonate the drivers. She also told him that a month leading up to the theft, she’d hacked the museum’s wireless security system, triggering a series of false alarms that caused them to temporarily downgrade to a less advanced wire based system, which left it vulnerable for the duo’s after hours break in. And finally, to top it all off she’d used a device she created to disabled CCTV cameras, motion sensors, and any other security measure the museum had. 

It’s nearly on par with the methods Rick himself had used back in the day, even down to the modifications in her disguise, which now seems more like a suit from a comic book than an average set of black clothes. She’d hidden laser guns underneath patches of neoprene on her sleeves, amongst other compact weapons hidden throughout her clothing. 

It reminds Rick of the days he used to experiment in the Smith family garage–when he made stuff similar to what she had, even right up until he stopped stealing art. 

He’d hated himself so much at that point for getting caught that he allowed part of the deal for his hiring at the FBI to be that he’d give up some of his inventions to them. So, in essence the FBI has some versions of what Blue already has, which works out for him, and not so much for her. 

Although, he wishes in part that she won’t get arrested, and that he hadn’t given away his ideas–it’d be a waste to see her have to stop developing her tech because Rick decided to sell himself out. 

But he was too tired and jaded to be musing about imaginary possibilities. 

So he stops thinking about it, and focuses on what’s next instead.

They spend the rest of the day driving up to wine country, to a warehouse in a small town near Petaluma where Blue says she occasionally stores stolen artwork. 

After a few hours of driving, she takes him to a large barn–like structure in the center what looks like a vast wine grove. She then explains to him that the warehouse is owned by a wealthy Japanese art collector, who purchases valuable works as assets to increase his investment portfolio. Thus, since the work wasn’t bought to be viewed or appreciated as anything else other than a means for wealth, he left them in storage. The man was paranoid about his money, and had practically hidden a climate controlled fortress inside the walls of an unassuming barn building, which he insisted be guarded around the clock. 

“I knew someone who worked the night shift, and they let me in whenever I would visit California, so I know this place like the back of my hand. See, like right now, the guy who’s supposed to be guarding the place is taking an hour long nap in the winery next door. And he’s only getting away with it because the owner’s not here.” She says as they enter the building. “But of course, I’ve messed with the cameras and everything too. Well, I guess you probably already assumed that…” 

She takes them to a room which she says is the place for uncatalogued artwork. Due to the collector's paranoia, cataloguing and organizing new works of art for storage was a lengthy and tedious process that often took months, since he was the type of paranoid individual that had a tendency to micromanage things to the extreme. Thus, over time, a large collection of art that was yet to be properly stored sat there without much supervision, and Blue could easily tuck the LACMA Hopper paintings in between other Hopper works the man collected while waiting for the ransom to come in, and the employees would be none the wiser. 

Assuming Blue routinely kept tabs on the place to make sure things stayed this way, the plan is basically fool proof. 

“Well well, not bad Blue.” Rick says when they’re finished and on their way back to LA. 

“I knew you’d be impressed, Rembrandt.” She replies confidently.

“Woah there, don’t get too ahead of yourself. You’ve still got a while before you can even think about getting as good as me.” 

She turns to face him, eyes bright. 

“I’ll get there, you’ll see.”

  
  


+++++

  
  


Rick is drained by the time he gets back to Manhattan. It’s night time and it’s pouring rain, but he realizes he's running low on alcohol. He’s out of his good, expensive stuff, so he stops by a Dean and Deluca in the Upper East Side on the way back to his apartment. 

When he gets to the liquor aisle, he curses inwardly and nearly turns back. He steps through the aisle anyway, though, because the sudden presence of a Morty in his dimension isn’t going to deter him from buying alcohol. Not now, and not ever.

And, besides, she’s not even facing him, so maybe he can sidestep past her and go on his way. 

When he gets closer he sees female Morty is now crouching down on the ground. She’s pouring a bottle of Maker’s Mark into a flask, drinking it until its empty, and then pouring more in. Strangely, the store isn’t very busy, so no one is there to catch her. 

She glances up when she tips her head back to start drinking again, and she looks so drunk it almost takes Rick by surprise. 

“Ugh. It’s _you_ …” She mutters bitterly, and he notices that her eyes are red, probably from crying. 

The sleeves of her soaked, oversized windbreaker bunch at her arms. She tries pulling them back over her shoulder, but the jacket's too big and they slide back down, exposing the fact that she's only wearing a bra underneath.

“Wasted in public, huh? Doesn't really s–seem like your style Melanie.” 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Good. I don’t want to URPP know.” 

He turns to grab a bottle from the shelf, but soon after he hears a loud clatter, and he looks towards the source of the sound. It’s a wine bottle rolling down the aisle–female Morty stumbles forward to stop it, but her movements are awkward and uncoordinated. 

Rick lets out a frustrated sigh and goes to pick up the bottle to give it back to her. 

“Thanks.” 

“Whatever.” 

Then female Morty goes to stand up, and she sways backward a little, her elbow accidentally jerking back and hitting the shelf, causing several liquor bottles to burst onto the floor. 

“Oh _shit_ –” Rick exclaims, and he grabs female Morty’s arm and rushes her out of the store. When they pass the Starbucks on the next corner, Rick suggests they go in, but she refuses, concerned that someone she knows may recognize her. So they keep walking until they’re a reasonable ways away from Deluca’s, and then he stops when he sees a spot they can sit and talk in. 

“Fucking Christ, Melanie, you’re _way_ too drunk to be out in public. You know, there’s a way to be fucked up and still act like a functional person, I–I can teach you sometime. But whatever you’re doing right now isn’t it.” Rick says over sound of heavy rain once they sit down. Incidentally, Rick’s glad he’s wearing a raincoat, Melanie, on the other hand…

“I don’t give a fuck about what you think Rick!” Female Morty replies, defiant, crossing her arms and turning away from him stubbornly.

Rick grabs her shoulder so they make eye contact again. 

“Hey, seriously, you should URPPP go home.”

“No–I can’t go back to my place with that _thing_ there!”

“What thing?”

“It–it doesn’t matter. I–I can’t. I just can’t go back there!” 

“I’m sure whatever that ‘thing’ is, it can’t be _that_ bad.”

“It is! It makes me think about my m–mom and Summer, a–all of them.” She looks away again, appearing agitated. “And how they… Ugh. Never–nevermind!” 

“They what? Died? Gave up on you? Got sick? Help me out a little here.”

“Died.” 

“Uh, okay, and so by ‘died’ does that include any extended family, like, gee, I dunno, your g–grandfather or something?” 

“Yeah. He died too. He was the one who–” She shakes her head, rubbing her forearm across her eyes as if trying to wipe away tears, but the constant downpour makes the effort futile. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, s–sorry...” And if it wasn’t for Rick sitting next to her, he wouldn’t have heard her over the pounding rainfall. 

And she sounds so pathetic he refrains from asking anything else about it. Though, it’s hard at this point to pretend not to at least wonder about this Morty’s life–if anything, he would ask her again later just to satisfy his curiosity, and then he would leave it be. 

And so, having catalogued his questions for later, he decides to try to convince her to go home again. 

“Look, so, if I help you get to your apartment would it make things easier for you to–you know, deal with the–that thing you’re afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of it! It’s just d–depressing, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever, so is that a yes?”

“I–I guess...” 

“Where do you live?”

“Not–not far. Spanish Harlem.”

They leave then, and when they make it to the subway station, she holds onto Rick’s arm to steady herself as they go down the steep set of stairs leading down to the platform. 

After a while, the subway arrives and they muscle their way through crowds of people to find a spot where they can sit next to each other.

They’re silent at first, until Rick notices female Morty crossing her arms over her chest, shivering in her seat. 

He offers her his raincoat, which she puts on, removing her soaked jacket and balling it up in her hands.

“Hey, there’s a flask in the inside pocket on the left side of my jacket, can you get it for me?” Rick asks.

Female Morty fishes it out for him, but pauses when she pulls it out. 

“Hey, yours looks just like mine, see?” She says, pulling out her own flask from inside her jacket and showing it to Rick.

“Was it your g–grandfather’s?” He asks, casually taking a long sip from his flask.

“Yeah. How do y–you know? It was one of the only things he had that survived the–oh–and his name was Rick too!”

“I guess all g–grandpa Ricks have the same URPPP taste in flasks, huh?” 

“Weird.” Female Morty says, laughing tiredly.

They spend the rest of the ride in silence. Female Morty leans over, slowly, and rests her head on Rick’s shoulder. When he eventually notices it, he doesn’t stop her, because he doesn’t have the energy to protest, and they’re five minutes away from getting off at Harlem, anyway.

When they get to her stop, she leads him to her apartment. However, not before she pauses by the nearest trash can and wretches into it. People glance at her indifferently as they walk by. Rick’s just glad she didn’t throw up in the subway.

She steps away from the trash can, wipes her mouth, and they continue walking. 

They stop in front of a row of brick apartment buildings, and he helps her up the set of stairs.

“Do you need help getting in or–or whatever?” He asks when they get to the door. 

And she doesn’t reply to him, just unlocks the door and stumbles through the doorway, and nearly trips onto an area rug. 

“Um, okay, I’ll take that as a–a yes.” Rick mutters as he quickly grabs her to prevent her from falling on her face.

When she regains her composure, Rick closes the door behind them. 

The apartment is pretty run of the mill for Harlem–old and cramped, but decent. There’s exposed brick on the wall to the right side of the room, which also has a window facing the street. Most of the floor is dark hardwood, but that’s about the only notable thing. The furniture looks like a combination of IKEA and stuff one might find on Craigslist; aside from that there’s not much else that serves to decorate the space. 

There’s a loveseat on the side with the brick wall where two other girls around female Morty’s age are sitting. They’re passing a joint between each other, watching an episode of _Friends_ on a TV mounted to the wall. 

“Hey Melanie!” One of them says before turning around. Then after a moment she looks back and her eyes rove over female Morty. “Wow, you look wrecked. Did you have to get your stomach pumped again?” She asks, voice a little too blasé and raspy from smoking weed.

“No.” Female Morty says quietly, taking off Rick’s jacket and handing it to him. 

“Okay, well, just don’t throw up in the sink. It took me forever to get it out last time.” 

Female Morty sighs. “Sorry.”

Rick watches as female Morty starts kicking off her wet slip ons, then bends down to remove her socks. 

As she does this, he hears the other girl on the sofa who hasn’t spoken yet whisper:

“Is she okay?”

And the roommate replies, “Yeah, she’s just an alcoholic, that’s all.” 

“Oh, wow... That sucks.” Her friend whispers back.

And if female Morty hears any of that, Rick thinks she’s doing a pretty good hiding the fact, since her face betrays no emotion.

Rick then watches her go towards the steep set stairs on the far side of the apartment which lead to the basement. He decides to stay with her at least until he can get her down there safely, and after that he’ll leave. 

Her basement apartment, it’s clean, but there’s moving boxes and objects scattered across the floor, and they have to step over a few liquor bottles, clothes, and boxes to get anywhere.

He also notices the walls are covered in paintings and sketches, most of which aren’t framed. He appreciates seeing it, though, since he thinks female Morty has a decent taste in art, barring the show she curated for the Guggenheim. 

Female Morty sits down on the bed and begins to undress unceremoniously, causing Rick turn away so he can give her some privacy. That’s when he spots an interesting piece of notebook paper lying on the far corner of the bed. 

He takes it and sits down in a chair by female Morty’s nightstand to read it. 

When he studies it he know what it is right away–they’re handwritten calculations for traveling to another dimension from the citadel without a portal gun. 

He assumes that she doesn’t know that, however, but he wants to be sure, so he asks anyway.

“What is this Melanie?”

“Oh god, I–I don’t want to look at that right now.” She mutters as she slides on a pair of pajama shorts. 

Rick figures, then, that the writing on the page must be what caused her breakdown.

“Is this yours?”

“No. It was my grandpa’s. He was a scientist.”

“Okay. Does it have to do with how he died?”

She lets out an irritated groan. “God! I told you already–I don’t w–wanna talk about it!”

She leans over to yank the piece of paper out of Rick’s hand and toss it to the side. 

They watch as it gently glides down to the ground, lost now amongst the disarray on the floor. 

She then reaches for her flask, which she had placed on the nightstand when they first entered the room, and before her hand can make contact with it Rick stealthily picks it up and moves it out of her reach. 

She hadn’t been looking when she went to grab it, so she stares at the spot where it was supposed to be on the nightstand, confused. 

“I could’ve sworn it was just there… Huh. I have more under my bed, can–can you g–get some for me Rick?”

“Sure.” Rick replies, but he doesn’t move. 

“Thanks.” She says, yawning.

Rick reaches down to scoop up a half empty water bottle off of the floor, and hands it to female Morty.

“Drink that first.” He instructs. 

And now she’s lying on her side facing him directly, and giving him a tired grin. 

“That’s totally something Summer would do.” She says, still smiling.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah. She used to pretty much shove w–water bottles in my face when I–when I would drink too much of mom’s wine.” 

Rick nods, imagining Summer chucking a water bottle at a teenage female Morty, but then trying to play it off in trademark Summer fashion, like she didn’t _actually_ care about her younger sister getting wasted.

“You know… I don’t know why, but she said grandpa Rick came from a–another dimension that night. Isn’t that c–crazy?” She chuckles softly when she says it. “She was so dramatic, I miss her.” 

Rick shrugs, thinking she’s likely referring to the night the Smiths supposedly died. 

“You n–never know. She could’ve been telling you the truth Melanie.” 

Female Morty raises an eyebrow at him. “You really–really think people can do that?” 

“Go to another URPP dimension? Yeah.” 

“How?” 

“Well, _theoretically_ , you would need a device that can generate a portal. But the rest would be URPP easier for you to understand if I drew it instead of explaining it.” 

Rick grabs a piece of sketch paper off of the floor, gets a pen out of his pocket, and starts drawing.

“Okay, so again, this is just _theory_ , but it w–would go kind of like this…” He draws for a few more moments, then holds up the paper to female Morty. But her eyes are closed and she’s breathing deeply, appearing to have just fallen asleep. 

He rolls his eyes.

“Fuckin’ Mortys…” Rick mumbles under his breath.

He puts the drawing away and watches her rest for a moment. The soft light coming from the small lamp on the nightstand illuminates the side of her face, drawing his gaze to that scar on her jaw that’d caught his attention the first time they met. His eyes follow it’s curved indent, which he studies like it’s a cipher, as if it held the answer to all his questions.

Rick sucks in a long breath and rises from his chair.

He walks over to the other end of her room and picks up the page with the scientific calculations again.

All he can glean from the writing is that female Morty’s Rick was likely coming from the citadel at some point in her childhood, and they all probably died soon after his arrival.

The fact that he was traveling from the citadel means he’s one of _those_ Ricks.

Rick never liked the citadel. But he was never as brazen as the infamous C-137 Rick. He hadn’t rebelled at first–unfortunately he’d given in to spending some time there back in the day when fitting in with his kind mattered to him. It wasn’t one of his finer moments–what with pretending he didn’t care about unscientific things like ‘art,’ and thinking he could fly under the noses of a crowd of geniuses who knew him because they _were_ him. And he’d pissed off a lot of Ricks in the process. 

Like that one time he got into an argument with another Rick who was trying to get him off the citadel for criticizing the Council of Ricks. The Rick went to another dimension, found _Starry Night_ , and threw the whole painting, frame and all, at his head, saying, “Van fucking _go_ , asshole!”

Yeah, he wasn’t going back there.

And the fact that this dimension’s Rick was coming from the citadel definitely meant he was dumbass, and that theory was supported by the fact that, somehow, everyone including him was dead save for his Morty.

He sets the page down on female Morty’s bed, and when he glances back up he notices something moving out of the corner of his eye–it turns out to be the rain hitting her basement window beside him. 

He peers at the dark window pane at that moment and catches his own reflection staring back at him, and female Morty, who’s sleeping form is also reflected on its surface. 

Seeing themselves now superimposed on the glass makes him think this wasn’t the kind of scene he could’ve ever imagined after having nearly run the other way upon seeing her for the first time. And specially not after promising himself he’d avoid Mortys at all costs. 

He gets the urge to leave, then, as he realizes now he’s spent too much time doing the very thing he’d sworn he’d never do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

It’s nighttime, as usual. 

Rick’s on edge–strung out; exhausted.

He’d nearly gotten his cover blown just now. The owners of the place he and Blue were stealing from didn’t leave their condo quickly enough, and he had to stealthily improvise a way to make them leave so as not to raise any suspicion.

That, and all their standard preparation like hammering away at the security systems, creating distractions, etcetera–took much longer than they had planned for, since the building had recently gone through a major upgrade of its tech. 

And, of course, everything takes even longer regardless when Blue sits around with her spraycan thinking up some kind of political message to go with the ransom and then musing about ways to extort the money. 

When they’re done with everything, he knows he’s going to have to hack the cryptocurrency transaction she’s arranged for said ransom to secretly disperse it back to the victims. It took him months to figure out how to crack something that’s supposedly untraceable, and now that he’s figured it out, it only takes hours. But still, it takes _hours_.

By the time the sun rises and he’s finished, he’ll have to face his supervisor once again. The latter will tell him he’s doing a good job, which will prompt Rick to ask for more time on the operation so he can be absolutely sure Blue's working alone, and his clueless supervisor will agree. 

Then, he’ll go back to his apartment, and remind himself he’s extending the investigation because he’s _thorough_.

Later on, when he sees her again he’ll feel relieved, and he won’t ever truly ask himself why. He’ll just convince himself any semblance of closeness is simply a side effect of engaging in a fabricated relationship. Ultimately, she’s just a means to an end, no matter if he likes her. That’s all.

The prospect of all these possibilities playing out in his head makes him want a drink. Or two. Or ten–whatever gets him to hammered. 

He’ll have to do that later, though, because right now they’re sneaking to the building’s garage to get to the getaway car, making sure the area is empty first before they go. 

Once there, Blue takes care of stowing away the artwork, while Rick goes outside to make sure no one comes in. 

Now alone, he switches on his audio device.

“We’re finished for tonight. I’ll come to the debriefing tomorrow, but we’re having it in the evening. I’m fucking exhausted. Sanchez out.” 

After a few minutes he goes back into the garage and walks over to the van. He spots Blue sitting in the passenger seat, as he gets closer he sees her head angled back while she pours a flask full of some kind of alcohol into her mouth. He can see now why her mask is made out of lace–the material is such that she can drink quickly and easily without any soaking through the fabric covering her mouth. 

She’s drinking urgently, like she’s been craving it for a while. 

Rick smirks to himself. 

This is new. 

Interested, he shuts off his audio. Even though his part of the investigation’s over for tonight, and he should really be getting some rest, he decides he’s going to hang around for a while longer, preferably without Bureau oversight. All of his aforementioned responsibilities be damned.

When he opens the car door, she jerks her head toward him, startled. 

“Oh–uh–sorry! I thought you were still out there.” She says, hastily putting away her flask. 

Rick scoffs as he slides into the driver’s seat.

“Come on. Don’t stop because of me. I’m literally the last person you should feel self conscious with when it comes to excessive alcohol consumption.” 

He fishes for his own flask (incidentally, an extra one that he only brings along in the field) and knocks it against hers. 

(Years ago, he constructed his mask so he could drink without having to take it off or use some strange fabric, and still be able to filter his voice. The Bureau has yet to find out about this.) 

“Cheers.” He says, downing the alcohol.

She looks at him for a moment, laughs nervously. 

“Oh cool. Cheers, I guess.” 

As they continue drinking, Rick checks the time. From his estimation, they have about half an hour until the super early morning risers start coming down to the garage, which is plenty of time to get some alcohol in him. 

He pulls out a pile of vodka mini bottles that he always carries around with him on missions (also without anyone’s knowledge) and pours them into his and Blue’s flasks.

Minutes pass in relative silence, the only sound is the swishing of the vodka in their flasks when they refill them again, and Blue’s soft sounds of contentment as she eagerly swallows down the alcohol. 

When she’s done, she looks around, and sees all the bottles are empty. 

“Ugh, I think we’re out of vodka.” She mutters. 

Rick thinks for a moment, then says: “Well, I know where to get more if you’re not busy, and maybe we can get another painting out of it, too. No ransom involved, it’ll be an easy sell.” 

“Where?”

“A place on the way up to the Hamptons–fucking rich people central.” 

“Hm. Maybe, but it sounds like a hassle. Why don’t we just get some fakes and sell those? I have a few good ones.”

“I doubt they’re that good, most forgeries get flagged eventually. Yours are probably no exception. What we’re gonna do is a sure thing–no risks.”

“Really? Because by your logic then your fakes must get flagged too, asshole.” 

“No. They never have because I’m not stupid enough to let that happen.” 

Blue rolls her eyes, and though she clearly doesn’t believe him, he can be sure of what he’s said because his forgeries aren’t forgeries at all. Ironically, they’re just a version of the real work but stolen from another dimension. It’s one of the only things that he managed to keep secret from the FBI. Anything involving his portal gun was always off limits.

“Then why don’t we just use yours then?” She asks.

“No, this’ll be better Blue. You’ll see.” 

Rick places the key in the ignition, but Blue puts her hand out to stop him before he can turn it.

“Wait, are you… Are you sober enough to drive?” She asks, suddenly sounding concerned. 

“Are you?” 

“Mm, probably not.” 

“So what should we do, Blue? Should we just wait here?” 

“Yeah, we should.”

“ _No_ , we won’t.” 

Rick brushes off Blue’s hand, turns the key in the ignition and pointedly ignores Blue’s protests.

“But what if you swerve and I _die?_ ” She questions dramatically.

Rick looks at her for a moment before responding. She’s clearly tipsy, which is surprising. By his standards, they didn’t drink much at all. 

He groans internally, thinking about how pathetic it is that she’s such a lightweight. 

“Look, you should know I have a lot of experience with drunk driving. I’m a fucking–I’m a goddamn pro. It’ll be fine.” He assures her as he drives the van out of the garage. 

Blue mumbles a “whatever,” and crosses her arms. 

Eventually, she dozes off along the way. 

By the time they arrive almost an hour later, Rick doesn’t bother to wake her up for the prep work. Disabling a house alarm is child’s play, no matter how rich a homeowner is. 

And anyway, there’s not much preparation to be done, since the mansion is in a historic community comprised of families with old money. Fortunately what that means for Rick and Blue is that the neighborhood isn’t gated or particularly well lit, and they can easily hide in relative darkness. The place also happens to be at the end of a long, dark street, a good distance away from any neighbors. It guarantees them not only darkness but also privacy and isolation. 

In other words, it’s prime real estate for a break in. 

When he comes back for Blue, her eyes are half lit, blinking open groggily. 

“Get enough sleep, princess Blue?” Rick asks sarcastically.

She throws him a sour look, whispers a tired, “fuck off,” and gets out of the van. 

They enter the house through the back, stepping through piles of dead leaves–a sign that there hadn’t been any upkeep there for a few months.

Rick switches on his flashlight, partially illuminating the inside of the vast living room. 

In the stark fluorescent light, the room appears completely chaotic. There’s overturned furniture; frames that once hung on the walls now scattered across the marble floor. As they walk shards of glass crunch and splinter underneath their boots. 

“Woah, what happened here?” Blue asks, her voice piercing the silence.

“Divorce.” He replies bluntly.

Rick grabs a few bottles of alcohol from the liquor cabinet and hands one to Blue. 

“Oh…” Blue mumbles as she takes the bottle.

They make it up a winding staircase on the far side of the room to get to a large bedroom on the second floor. 

When they enter, Rick points his flashlight on a framed piece of art hanging on the wall behind the bed. 

“Boom! This the huge–the big reveal here.” 

The glass reflects the light in such a way that Blue has difficult time seeing what Rick is showing her. He moves the flashlight slightly, however, and when she finally sees what it is her eyes light up.

“An original screenprint of Warhol’s Marilyn! We studied this one art school.” She says in awe. 

“You went to art school?” 

“Yeah, it really sucked.” She says, opening a bottle of gin; starts drinking it straight. She winces when she puts the bottle down but keeps talking. “Stuck up rich kids and shitty artists who had connections with dealers, fucking over all the real artists who never made a dime. It always made me think of that time in Picasso’s life when he couldn’t sell anything just because his art was unsettling and not in vogue at the time. You know, his blue period? That’s what it always felt like.”

(Rick thinks briefly that he should have his audio turned on for this conversation, but he’s broken too many Bureau codes at this point to want to out himself.) 

“Huh. So, behind all that benevolence is revenge. I mean, I can see it. Take money from the rich, give it to charity. Get back at the upper classes for having advantages over you. Have all the power.” 

“Not just rich people. I’m getting back at everyone who ever underestimated me. I worked hard to get to where I am. Here now–with you.” 

“You struggled all your life just to meet me? Hm, you’re speaking directly to my ego. I like it.” Rick says smugly between sips of cognac. 

Blue rolls her eyes, preferring to chug the gin she’s drinking than to fall for his bait. 

Rick watches her get a few gulps in, and then stop to grimace, evidently its strong taste being too much for her to handle. 

She sways back onto the bed and misses her mouth when she goes to drink again. 

She curses herself silently, and Rick can’t help but once again be disappointed by her alcohol tolerance. 

Ricks sets the flashlight on an ottoman beside the bed, turns it so it’s shining at them, and goes to sit next her. 

He gets an idea. A really terrible and reckless idea–which means it’s a good one. 

“I bet you can’t get through that bottle without passing out.” He declares slyly.

Blue raises an eyebrow at him. “Is that a challenge?”

“If you can handle it.”

Her eyes narrow with a look of determination, and she brings the gin back to her mouth and starts downing it rapidly. 

She gets through a decent amount of it, but stops abruptly and lets out strangled breaths as she wipes her mouth. 

“Ohmygod–” She slurs breathlessly. 

When she regains her composure, she starts again, and manages to finish it quickly. 

She leans her head against Rick’s shoulder and laughs, holding the bottle up high over her head.

“I did it Rembrandt, I lived!” She announces, and tosses the bottle on a pile of clothes spread on the floor. 

She angles her face towards the crook of Rick’s neck, still chuckling to herself, clearly amused at her accomplishment.

“Bravo.” Rick mutters. He would usually have a better, more cutting reply, but he’s distracted by the warmth of her breath on his neck–on that small strip of bare skin not covered by his mask.

Every time she exhales, he feels a wave of goosebumps through his body that feel like tiny pinpricks gradually releasing his inhibitions.

Without much forethought, he hooks a few fingers under the fabric of her mask, tugs on it gently, but she immediately captures his wrist to stop him from sliding it her off of her face. 

Instead, she moves his arm down away from her neck–down to the waistband of her tights. She kneels on the bed and helps him pull them down, along with her underwear and boots–all of which he tosses to the floor. 

He promptly finishes his bottle of cognac; shoves it aside, focusing only on her now.

“Get up here.” He demands, and she does so without hesitation.

He feels the warmth between her thighs, tastes her wet heat, making it evident what she wants from him now. 

And his own desire, having long washed away his common sense, will give it to her. 

The subtle sounds filtering through her mask goad him on, and he learns what to do to make them louder. 

What follows is a drunken haze of intertwining limbs and rough movements, punctuated by muffled whimpers stifled by her mask. 

At some point, she jokingly asks him to pull out of her, and dares him to aim his come at the Warhol above them. 

It’s a ridiculously juvenile proposition, and that’s exactly why he tries it, and of course he sorely fails to get anywhere near the art. But they laugh about it, and she tells him, feigning disappointment, that he should try again next round. 

But he gets her to come a few more times to make up for it. 

When it’s over they’re blissfully sated, minds buzzing in the afterglow. They lie down beside each other, panting and sweating. Rick pours some more liquor in her flask and takes a drink. 

He moves closer to Blue, who’s watching him. He wraps an arm around her and holds her, passing her the flask. She lets the alcohol burn through her throat, drinking more than she probably should but being too far gone to be bothered.

While she drinks, Rick presses his mouth gently against her temple. He feels the coarse pattern of the lace against his lips and for a brief moment pretends that it’s her skin. 

The light touch relaxes Blue, and she lets her eyes steadily drift closed. She drops the empty flask somewhere on the bed when she’s finished with it, and they soon fall asleep. 

The next morning, Rick untangles himself from her and leaves to sell the Warhol piece alone. He figures she’ll be too hungover to be useful.

It’s incredibly easy, anyway. A neighbor had been eying it for years, and all Rick had to do was walk there and hand it over. 

By the time he comes back an hour or so later, she’s gone. 

He notices a scrap of paper sitting on the bed, and he picks it up to read it. 

_‘I cleaned up. Thanks for handling the Warhol. Transfer my half of the payment in crypto, as usual._

_Last night was fun by the way. Wanna do it again sometime?’_

He crumples the note into his pocket.

God, if the FBI got a load of what they were doing, he’d be screwed. 

But for some reason, he can’t find it in himself to care.

  
  


+++++

  
  


A few weeks pass since Rick's last seen female Morty. 

He’d been actively avoiding her since that train wreck of a night when she’d been wasted, and he had taken her to her apartment.

But there’s only so much time he can spend evading her before they inevitably run into each other again. 

After all, they run in the same circles now; it’s practically unavoidable. 

So, when they finally cross paths at a gallery show opening one night in Midtown, it’s not much of a surprise. 

He wastes some time outside first though, admiring the colorful leaves dotting the grass out in Bryant Park, and the crisp fall weather.

From what he can see through the gallery’s glass windows, it’s packed, and she’s leading groups of people around the space, and he figures she must’ve had a hand in organize it. 

He continues watching her absently for a while, polishes off his flask, and then goes in. 

After a while, she walks by him with a group of people, and pointedly doesn’t make eye contact. She even gets right next to him to explain the work he’s standing in front of. Which, of course, he stays to listen to. Her presence isn’t going to stop him from appreciating art like anyone else.

When she’s done with her shpiel about the piece, someone asks: “So what’s it like being curator Melanie?” 

And female Morty gives some inane, flowery answer, and Rick gets the irrational urge to chime in (if they’re going to be in the same space, he figures he might as well make it worth his while).

“I heard another perk of the job is getting UGHHP wasted after work, right M–Melanie?” Rick asks slyly. 

A look of shock crosses her face when she hears it, mouth opening slightly, like she’s been taken off guard and can’t form a response quickly enough. 

A woman who Rick recognizes because they frequent the same shows points at both of them enthusiastically. She’s clearly had too much of the gallery’s free rosè. “Oh my god! Do you two know each other?” 

“I wish I didn’t.” Female Morty mutters, staring daggers into Rick. 

She waves her hand at female Morty dismissively. “Don’t mind Rick, he’s just a cranky old man. Being shitty is kind of his thing.” She says in an overly dramatic whisper. 

Rick scoffs. “I l–literally heard _all_ of that.” 

“Good.” female Morty says bitterly, and then announces that they’re moving on to the next piece. 

He stays behind, and doesn’t talk to her again for the rest of his time at the show. 

About an hour or so later, he refills his flask with what’s left of the gallery’s supply of vodka and leaves. 

He goes to his stop at Grand Central, and just when he’s passing through the turnstiles to get to the subway platform, he hears his name being shouted from somewhere behind him. He figures it’s probably some other person with the same name, and ignores it. 

But then he here’s a “Hey!” next to him, and he turns to see it’s female Morty, out of breath and trying to catch up to him. 

“Rick!” She calls out, coming up right beside him. 

“What do you want Melanie?” He asks, trying his best to hide his confusion. He’s not sure what she could possibly want from him right now. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” She demands, fury raging in her eyes.

“Problem? I was just stating a fact. You get wasted a lot. It’s a UGHHP fact.” 

“Well do you need to tell my friends and c–collectors about it?” 

Rick shrugs. “ _Well_ Melanie, do you need to go around being a fucking lush that can’t handle her liquor? No. But y–you do anyway.” 

Female Morty inhales sharply, fists clenched at her sides. 

“Do you know why I get so _drunk?_ Do you w–w–wanna know? Huh?” She questions angrily as the subway doors slide open, and she follows Rick inside. 

Thankfully, it’s nearly empty, and no one pays attention to them.

“Does it matter? I mean, you–you’re probably–“

“Ugh, shut the fuck up! I just decided I don’t care what you think. I’m just gonna fucking tell you, you asshole. I was fourteen when my grandpa came to our house unannounced, after b–being gone m–m–my whole life. I wasn’t home when he got there. 

That night, there was an accident in the garage, s–s–some kind of chemical explosion, and everyone died. Mom, dad, Summer, and grandpa Rick, all of them, and they thought it was my grandpa’s fault because–because it was a weird chemical and h–he’s a scientist, so it made sense. Anyway, I was in foster care for a while after that, and it was horrible Rick. I got beat up by the other foster kids all the time, and made fun of. 

And _all_ I could ever think about was how I wish I could see them again, just once. I don’t even know what my grandpa looked like because mom was too much of an emotional wreck to want to show me any pictures.” She sucks in a long, shaky breath, eyes glassy. “So, that’s why I drink Rick.” 

He briefly wonders if she’d care this much if she knew there were infinite versions of their family out there, and hers is just one in an endless combination of Smiths.

“Huh, yeah. That’s a pretty shitty life story M–Melanie.” He replies nonchalantly, because if their existence is practically expendable, then there’s no reason to get torn up about one of them dying when there were so many more of them out there. 

She’s bound to learn that eventually. Just like he did when his Morty ran away. 

“Is that it? Don’t you have at least one s–sympathetic bone in your fucking body?” She questions in an accusing tone. 

“Oh–is this what this is? You chased me all the way d–down the subway so you c–could get me to feel bad for you? Yeah UGHHP no.”

“Maybe some sympathy would be f–f–fucking nice.” She replies lowly.

“Look Melanie, I get it, but you’re not the only one who’s had a bad life. I could sit here a–a–and wax poetic about my bullshit, but nobody gives a fuck, so I don’t.” 

“I bet–I think if you weren’t such an asshole people would w–want to listen.”

“The world isn’t a f–fucking therapy session, and unlike you, I’m not going to subject other people to a sob story. And speaking of therapy, y–you should really get some.”

“Yeah? Well so should you.”

“Nah, I got all the URPP therapy I need right here.” Rick points to his flask in his pocket as he says it, and then pulls it out to take a long drink, smirking at female Morty all the while. 

“Well, maybe I w–would go to therapy, but I can’t afford it.” 

“ _Maybe_ if you drank less you could, e–ever thought of that?” 

She throws him a disparaging look, ire flaring up again. 

They keep going back and forth like that, and when they get to Rick’s stop in the Upper East Side, she follows him out of the subway, all the way to his street, down to his block. 

And she asks him again, what his problem is with her.

He’s so exasperated that it doesn’t register anymore that she’s essentially just followed him all the way from Midtown. 

So, when they get to his apartment, he doesn’t ask her to leave, he just absently leads her inside and they walk down the hall, and he stands with his back to the front door with her there. He’s singularly focused on his indignation and nothing else.

“Fine!” He exclaims. “I’ll tell you what my problem is. I’m sick of people like you, thinking it’s cool to be fucked up. Like oh, look, my family’s all dead, I’m so _edgy_ , and _sad_ a–and _broken_. And y–you’re always trying to–to piss me off when you steal my portal gun. You tell me you’re done with me, that you’ll go on your own adventures, that Ricks are assholes, I’m sick of it.” 

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Of course you don’t, you’re a fucking dumbass Melanie!” 

“What did you just call me?” She grabs fistfulls of his jacket and yanks him down so they’re eye level, her eyes piercing his.

“Did I s–stutter?” He asks.

“Yeah, you did.” 

And then Rick gets impossibly closer, so they’re practically breathing the same air. 

“Funny. You think you’re so–so fucking clever. You piss me off so much, like I could just–” Rick stops himself from finishing the sentence, and instead scoffs and shakes head. 

There’s silence for a beat. 

It’s dark, but even in the dimness of the hall female Morty’s eyes somehow glow like full moons. 

She’s standing so close to Rick, blocking the light coming from the windows behind them like she’s eclipsing him, casting a long shadow that darkens his thoughts.

“What? Like y–y–you could just what?” She asks lowly.

“Like I could just fuck you.” 

“Then do it.” She says, and pulls him in to close the distance between them. 

Her mouth tastes like wine and chapstick, and it drives him mad that he likes it; wants as much of it as he can get.

He angles his arm behind him and unlocks the door without breaking contact. He drags her through and slams it shut behind them. 

He tries turning them around so he can guide her to his bedroom, but in the darkness he twists her awkwardly and she trips forward, bringing him down with her. 

“Fuck–” He hisses when his lower back hits the hardwood floor; head smacking against the wall. He’s about to try and get up when she pushes him back onto the floor, starts unzipping his jeans. 

She pulls up her tight dress; she’s not wearing any underwear.

There’s not much preamble then–they’re half dressed still, but he slips on a condom and begins fucking her right away.

She starts bearing down on him, hard–so much so his head occasionally knocks back against the wall behind him once more, and he’s giving as much as he gets, but she’s on top of him and holding him down. 

“Fuck–fuck _you_ , I feel like I could k–kill you sometimes–” She sneers, burrowing her nails into his arms and making him wince.

She then moves her hands up around his neck and squeezes–mercilessly–he wants to reply but he can barely breathe, and the feeling’s intoxicating, but he’s had enough. 

He’s not about to be dominated by a Morty. 

So, he grabs her wrists, and flips them over to switch their positions, puts his own hands around her neck, wrapping his fingers around her tightly, her pulse hammering against his grip as he pushes back inside her.

“You’re too much of a fucking little bitch–to try and–you could only _dream_ of killing me.” And he watches her shut her eyes and grit her teeth, whole body shuddering underneath him, and she doesn’t try and move his hands away. “You f–fucking like that, don’t you Morty–me choking you? Don’t you, you fuck–”

And then after a moment she starts tugging on his arms, and he lets up, but doesn’t stop ramming into her.

She starts heaving in ragged breaths, voice raspy when she asks: “Who the fuck is Morty?” 

The question triggers something in his mind–he realizes he still doesn’t know her real name. By now, he’s already searched for it, but had come up empty. He could’ve tried harder, but in the end he’d rather hear it straight from her.

“What’s your name?” He grits out, disregarding her question.

“It’s Melanie, why–” 

“Fuck that. Your _real_ name.” 

”That _is_ m–my real fucking name.” 

“It’s not.”

”Why–why don’t you tell me _your_ real name? I bet it isn’t–”

“It’s Rick, always has been, and I can prove it. Your turn now.”

“No.”

“Sanchez.”

“Huh?”

“That’s my last name too, for f–fucking posterity.”

“Fucking s–stop–”

“Stop? You mean stop this… Here?”

Rick slows down to slight, barely there thrusts. He hears female Morty whine beneath him at the torturously minimal contact, and then he stops altogether. 

”Come on, why’d y–you stop?“

“You asked.”

She tries moving her hands down, presumably to finish herself off, but Rick is restraining her. He watches her expectantly, waiting for her to give up. She’s looking back at him, her expression wild and desperate.

“That’s not what I wanted when I said stop you–you asshole.” 

“Then tell me the truth.”

He starts up again, but very gradually. At this rate it’ll take forever for either of them to come, and they’re so close. She’s losing her mind.

“Okay, fine! Just let me come. I’ll tell y–you when I come, please–“

Finally.

Rick surges forward and angles his body just right, and it’s like she’s been split open. 

She sinks the blunt edge of her fingernails harshly into his shoulders, tosses her head back–big pupils rolling like dice. 

And that’s when Rick hears it, just as they start to come in unison. 

“Morticia.” 

And it sounds as if it’s forced out of her–a punch to the gut that’s taken her breath away, like she’s in the middle of losing some imaginary fight.

But winning or losing doesn’t matter at all to a girl who’s seeing stars behind her eyes and is practically shaking with the sparks of release.

He picks her up and takes them to his room; to his bed, and all that matters now is the way Rick holds her after she comes down–it’s familiar somehow, it’s good. 

He passes her his flask, like they’re in some kind of temporary truce. She takes it, carelessly letting the vodka slide down her throat. There’s once more the unwavering feeling that they’ve done this before, too, but maybe that’s just the alcohol talking. 

Then, when his lips lightly graze her temple, it’s like she’d been expecting that as well. 

And this–this strange, uncharacteristic tenderness, it feels like it’s from a drunken memory.

She can’t figure it out, and she drifts into sleep wondering why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shout out to [dreamwalker44](http://dreamwalker44.tumblr.com/) for making some sweet monochrome art for this fic, which you should definitely check out [here](https://tinyurl.com/y9n5rp4u) on my Tumblr. This was such a lovely surprise to open in my inbox, thank you!
> 
> And, as always, thanks everyone for reading!


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